Moments in time
by Spy'd R
Summary: After the Fall. Sherlock says he wants to see he world, but he really is on the run from himself as well as from his feeling. He also wants to seek revenge for what Moriarty's people have done to him and John. In New York City he meets someone, who can finally help him understand his feelings for John.
1. Falling, Watching, Feeling

He had watched it all. He had seen John collapsing, and with him his own heart. Yes, they had more than often told him that he didn't have one, but that was not true. John had showed him that. He had given him the proof in showing him what affection was. The only thing that remained the same was however much he had changed, that caring was no good at all. Sherlock could see that now, as he felt his cheeks becoming all hot and red again. Every thought of John made him keel over; especially now, as he made his way through the streets of Edinburgh. His flight to New York would depart in twenty-four hours.


	2. Reasons

"And what do you think shall I do? You don't really think faking my own suicide, will solve anything, do you, Mycroft?", Sherlock had asked his brother now a month ago.

"Moriarty's simply too clever. We are equal."

Mycroft had just arched an eyebrow. "I'm not so sure about that. He may seem to be as clever as you, but he is blindfolded by hate. That makes him weaker than you."

"As much as it hurts to admit that, Mycroft, you have got a point…"

"Really. Have I.", Mycroft's tone was empty, if not a bit sarcastic.

"Would you shut up and think!? I was being serious. So, what do you think I am supposed to do for…ah…right; an unknown span of time; was it?"

"Exactly. I don't know. But you have to stay away from London; from John."

Of course Mycroft had noticed the barely visible flicker of anxiety on Sherlock's face; the slight narrowing of his pupils, the faint but sharp exhale.

"You could settle down in Bournemouth or Wick or anywhere else and study bees."

"I'd liken to study other things to be honest." Sherlock had continued his masquerade as he had before the mention of John. Now nobody could deny Mycroft's obvious surprise.

"And that would be…?"

"People."


	3. Edinburgh to New York

Sherlock had insisted that he would stay until his funeral was over.  
Mycroft of course had disapproved and called him various things Sherlock didn't even hear.  
His thoughts were stuck to the future that was to come.  
He had decided to travel around the world, until he was told to come home; it was sure until John was safe. But what also bothered him was to find out more about Moriarty's cobweb-of-evil.  
He wanted to make them regret.

He had started off, visiting Wales, Northern Ireland, Ireland and Scotland, from where he would move on to the USA beginning his journey in New York City.  
Now there he was, alone in the Scottish rain.  
The Highlands were far away, but he had liked them most; the endless green lands of moor, where everything was likely to happen.  
He had also liked the smell of the wet ground and the way it rained.  
The rain here in Edinburgh was somehow different from the one in Kirkwall or even Thurso.  
The airport seemed to be empty; it was his brother's way to say "have a nice flight".  
Eventually his plane landed.  
He watched it come to the ground, racing through a gigantic puddle of dirty water and drenching an airfield-worker.  
John would have found that funny.  
He would've laughed.  
He would have; if he had been there.


	4. 211B strong

** DICLAIMER: I do not own SHERLOCK, and I do not own the one line from SNOW PATROL ("Those Distant Bells")****DIS**

A month had passed now; on the day. John had only moved on a tiny bit from his deep, dark depression. He could smile again when he remembered a funny remark from Sherlock, or saw a photo that caused jolly memories, but most of the time the thin giggling descended into sobs. Depression is a thing, that isn't cured within a month; even more so if you realise, that the one person you just saw dying and couldn't save, this one person that jumped off a rooftop to save your life, was the one person you've really loved. John visited his therapist only seldom anymore. Mycroft had been right from the start; she was wrong; wrong with everything she said, but John couldn't possibly tell her this. His leg had also started to hurt again, for whatever reason. His life had turned dark again. After this short while, when he had had Sherlock, his life had turned as black as coal. Sherlock had been his ember, all but out after a tiny glimmer. Just until one day, he plucked up all his courage.


	5. Cobaltblue, cold heart

The first day three days in New York, he had spent in his hotel room; mostly sleeping. The fourth day though was different. He finally was able to force himself out of the room, and wander off into the streets. He bought things he needed, sat in some cafés and caught a murderer. This helped him to let his thoughts trail off. But when he began to feel bored again, he went to a library. He found the book by accident. It was innocently lying on a tray, ready to be restored. It was a book about the construction of bones and the human skeleton. On the cover there was a skull, and on the skull there was a cobalt-blue symbol. Sherlock instantly knew that it was linked to the Lotus; he had had to deal with two years ago. He also instantly knew that this was linked to Moriarty's network. Sherlock put the book into one of his coat's pockets and moved on to the computers. He opened the internet. The happy colours of Google were smiling at him, and so did the button that said "I'm feeling Lucky". Again he had to think about John. How was he doing? Was he happy? Was he even glad to be rid of this "arrogant sod", as people often called him? A silent sigh escaped his throat. He, for himself, deduced, that John had to be well and happy to be freed from him. And then, Sherlock couldn't help it but typing "John H. Watson" into the bar of the search-engine.


	6. Plenty of tea and a good deal of time

Even after more than a month John had been sad and silent. He started to refuse to eat, just like Sherlock had done when he had been alive. Mrs. Hudson swore she had never seen anything unfortunate like this little heap of sadness called John. She had asked neighbours and friends, she had gone to Mrs. Turner to ask for another date for John, but the poor little bugger just wouldn't cheer up. She would almost cry, when she heard him talking to nobody, like Sherlock was there; it really broke her heart. She didn't know what to do anymore. Maybe all he needed was plenty of tea, and a good deal of time.


	7. Letters

John somehow had to deal with this terrible hole. He had to do something, because nobody else could help him, except Sherlock, but that wasn't an option any longer. He knew he had gone mad by now, but otherwise he simply wasn't able to bear this emptiness, tearing his heart apart. So, one day, he had sat down at his desk, silently crying. The tears dropped down onto the paper, as he started to write a letter to Sherlock; a letter, that he knew would, or rather could never send.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know what you would think if you read this. You would look at me like I was_

_Insane, which I must be by now. Otherwise I wouldn't write such things, right?_

_Because you will never read this. Because you're gone. Because you're…you won't return._

_There are some things I never told you, you know? I never asked you,_

_How it was like to be you. Never asked you, why you are who you are, and_

_Many more…There are only few people left who believe in you._

_There's Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and even Donovan. What Mycroft thinks_

_About all this…well, I don't know…you never know what he's thinking, right?_

_How can you possibly…well you are his brother…_

_Oh god, I don't even know why I'm doing this…anyway, this is what I wanted to tell you._

_That I am the only one who REALLY still believes in the great Sherlock Holmes!_

_Yours sincerely,_

_John_


	8. Sunset in New York

The sun was just about to sink, and made the Big Apple, look more like a toffee-apple. She shadows were getting longer, and the sky was drenched in all possible shades between yellow and red. Sherlock was wandering towards the BrooklynBridge. His head was bowed a little. In his hand he was holding a photograph of him and John. He hadn't found it on the internet; he had had it with him all the time, but it was now, he could look at it again. The photo showed John and him. The smaller man was holding onto Sherlock, since he had been buzzed a bit. It had been a pleasant Christmas, when John just had returned from Scotland Yard's party. Mrs Hudson really wanted to take this photo, because she had said, that both of them looked so contented. Sherlock was sure; John would have loved the view right now. It was…romantic. Lost in thoughts, he wandered on until he saw the figure on the fence of the bridge.


	9. Only the truth

Sherlock paced up, but didn't run. He took his time. The light was fading, so he couldn't see much of the person. But even the thought of the fall, gave him chills and made him shudder.

"Don't do that. There's no sense in it."

The voice of the woman was cracked. She was crying obviously. Deductions were flooding Sherlock's mind.

"Why…" she responded as if it was the most natural thing to do.

"Because you want attention, and that's not how you get it, because if you jump you will be dead."

"So what? Nobody cares anyway! What do you think, I do it for?!"

"Wrong. You may have no close family left, but your ex-lover would care."

The woman made a tiny step closer to the end of the balustrade. A loud sob was to be heard.

"Look, you don't want to die. I can see that in the way you are standing there. If you want it all to end, and if you want it to be all fine again, you have to work hard, yes. But eventually you don't need to die for happiness. Believe me; I know what I'm talking about. I have just done it…"


	10. The confusion of the aftermath

When she heard that, she immediately turned round to face the strange man. All her plans had now been drowned in those peculiar words. She stroked a strand of wild, unnaturally red hair out of her face. Her eyes were reddened by tears, but still beautiful. They had a bluish-greyish colour and a clarity that surprised Sherlock. The rest of her heart-shaped face also was rather delicate. Her body-structure was tall and skinny though. She held out a hand for Sherlock to help her come down. He did no such thing. So she simply sat down on the stone-barrier of the bridge. She tilted her head. "What did you mean by that?"

Now the detective was confused at best. He had expected her to cry and take out on him, or maybe to ask how he possibly had known all this but she was only interested in the story of his own suicide. "I don't usually tell strangers anything about me…"

She sighed. "I see…the problem is that I know a load more about you, than you'd believe. Or maybe you saw it too…"


	11. Deducting each other

The scenery reminded Sherlock very alarmingly on Irene Adler. This woman was also clever; knowing. But there was something else Sherlock wasn't yet able to see.

"I…I beg your pardon…?"

"You said, that I wouldn't need to die for happiness, and that you knew what you were talking about, because you just had done it. What does that mean? Kinda Puzzles me."

He now realised, that she couldn't be American by origin; her accent was English or Irish.

"It means exactly what I said…" she cut him off.

"It doesn't make any sense. If you meant what you said, you wouldn't be here; you'd be dead."

Her sudden change of mood surprised him even more, but he began to enjoy it. She had wits and she was thinking, not slow; very intelligent even, and most of all not boring.

"Obviously. Well, I'll tell you why I am here then."

"That's one of only few things I still couldn't make out about you. But maybe we should go somewhere else. Maybe you'd like some tea?"


	12. Names

The walk to the nearest café was walked in silence. Now the sky was black, but spotted with stars, planes, helicopters and occasional clouds. The air was filled with the sounds of a city that never slept. A slight breeze came up and carried a thousand different scents with them. After about twenty minutes, they reached a small coffee shop. "We could go in there." she suggested. "I like it rather well, and it's not too expensive like the others were."

Sherlock only nodded. The evening had become rather cool, thought it was summer. The detective's trained eyes noticed that she was trembling, but he didn't intend to do anything against it.

Only a few minutes later, they were sitting face to face at a window-table, with each a hot cup of tea in front of them. "You were about to tell me why you're here."

"I'd like to know your name first."

"Only if you tell me yours to, Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. It was a short smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Alright. I'm Zylphia. Zylphia Hunt."

"M…there' an M. Mary I suppose. Most common Victorian era name."

Zylphia laughed aloud. There was little left of the trouble that had filled her eyes before. Only a faint ghost of darkness fogged her face.

"Mary? You serious?"

Sherlock was confused by her reaction. He must have been wrong with her second name. There was always something.

"Well, you were almost right. It's Mercy actually. How did you know?"

"Dammit…well there's the label of your shirt very visible on your back. On the label there are you initials written in black permanent marker. And since your other name is also Victorian, I assumed it must be Mary; which is, like I already pointed out, the most common name of the 1890 era beginning with an M."

"Most common? My name is Zylphia. Anyway…now what's your name?"

Sherlock was very sorry not to be honest. She was smart, not annoying at all, but he couldn't possibly tell her his real name, or his cover would be blown of someone hear it. For the world he was dead. Maybe he would write her a letter one day.

"Terrance Walpole."


	13. Explaining the Fall

"Nice to meet you, Terrance. Now, what brings you here, that makes you so sad?"

"It really is a dangerous and complicated matter. But initially, I am here, because I want revenge. It is my profession, to solve crimes in certain occasions. Someday I came across the leader of a criminal network of immense importance. He considered myself as a disturbing factor of his racketeering and evil business, so he had to get rid of me. He is dead now, I watched him die. But his network is still active, even without him."

Zylphia had listened with concern, but Sherlock couldn't make out what exactly she was thinking, or what was going on in her head. Again he was startled. There was something about this woman; he had yet to figure out.

"But that sounds great, I mean, the wolf is dead. His network is certainly lost without his leader.", again there was this European impact.

"If you would let me finish, and listen, you wouldn't need to ask."

"Sorry…"

"Pardon given. The problem is that I am sorry for not solving it any better.", suddenly he didn't want to tell her anything of John. She was right anyway. There was nothing to worry about. Everything would turn out to be fine eventually. Soon Mycroft would call, and tell him to come back. Still Sherlock didn't understand what it was, that it all came down to one name. A name, that had changed since his fall. Because, only one six weeks ago, the only name on his mind had been Jim Moriarty; but this name had been replaced now by John Watson. And with the name, there came a warm feeling he had never felt before


	14. Feelings are Boring

**Sorry guys this lasts so long, next chaper will contain some suspense and fulfill the task of "crime"!  
****If anyone has some ideas, how to continue with John or anything else, please fee free to message me! :3**

* * *

There are people like Sherlock, who simply don't know when it's the time to change the topic. And there are people like Zylphia who seem to be able to read your face like a book, these people who seem to base their entire social skills on the emotions of other people. And so she simply knew not to dig any deeper. Meanwhile, Sherlock tried to get rid of this silly, bubbly feeling that confused him so much. When he had calmed down a bit, he decided to simply go on. "But…" he looked deeply into her eyes, deducing what was there. "…just because I'm curious, why did you want to die? It's not the money obviously and not work."

"Well, the standard range of reasons I think…not feeling loved, not feeling cared about, being overlooked by everyone. And there's this…I don't know how to call it…ability?"

Sherlock was anxious to finally hear what his deductive hadn't been able to see yet. But he'd thought, she wouldn't tell it.

"I don't know if it's special in any sense at all, but it's my personal curse. I can understand everyone, you know? I don't mean literally, with language and all, but I can see everyone's feelings and automatically know why. I know why, I always do. And I can't go on any longer, because I want to have my own feelings too and not just adapt emotions that aren't mine! And I don't want to know!" she collapsed with tears in her eyes and throat. She lay down her head on her arms on the table; muffled sobbing. Eventually she looked up again.

"And then, there was you, Terrance. You told me, that you had just commited suicide, but I didn't know why, and I couldn't see what you were feeling. I still don't. And that was such a relief, that I became hopeful again."

"People often say that I neither have feelings nor a heart. It seems like it finally paid off.", he smirked, and his smile was replied immediately. But now, Sherlock began to doubt. She had wanted to kill herself because she felt too much. Feelings were always dull, and so were suicides. This was again the proof, that feelings and caring were no good at all.

He looked down on his watch. Still there was a lot to do the next day, now he had the lead to Moiarty's people. "I should go now. I'm glad to have met you."

"What now? So suddenly? No, please don't leave! Or…let me just see you home, ok?"

"That should be possible."

They paid, left the café and made their way back. As they had gone about half the way, Sherlock asked, "So where are you from originally?"

"So you still here it? Wow…But, I tell you what, you have to guess."

"I never guess."

"Well then, tell me anything unless it's right; this time."

Sherlock frowned and was a bit annoyed by the remark, but since she hadn't been extraordinarily rude, a bit admiring even, he could cope; a tiny bit like John's reaction on him. John.

"Everything on your body is made in the USA, even your teeth, but your choice of words and your handwriting are clearly British. Some of your genetic characteristics like your eyes and body type are also British, but that doesn't say much. So you have been living here a long time, but not always. You learned to talk in Europe and moved here with you father obviously. Your mother died when you were very little. So, England it is."


	15. Entropy

The line between instinct and feeling may be blurred, but yet it is clear to say that it exists. Sherlock had had this kind of foreknowing all way down the road. Zylphia was now wrapped in his warm, woollen coat, after asking him for it. He liked the fact that she hadn't hesitated to do so; just like he would've done it.

When they reached the door Sherlock's residence, Zylphia insisted to come up with him.

"You better go home now. And I'd like to have my coat back."

"Alright…of course!", she handed him his coat and adjusted his scarf a bit.

"Good bye, Terrence. It was…" she was looking for words, but the only terms that came to her mind, he would just frown about; so she just stuck to something also he would understand. "…pleasant to have met you."

"Good bye.", then he simply turned and went in. Zylphia stood for a while, until also she turned and continued her way home down the road.

When Sherlock reached his room, he had already seen from across the corridor what was wrong; they hadn't even bothered to close the door properly. Inside, was the perfection of entropy brought to a point; or in other words: a perfect mess. His clothes were scattered across the entire room and party ripped and torn apart, the furniture also was knocked over oh his bed there were glass splinters and on the wall above, there was the cobalt cipher. The same as on the book he had in his pocket and now held in his hand. James Moriarty's network had found him, and wanted revenge.


	16. Those two letters

At the third short look over the room, he had noticed that the man, the person must have escaped only short before. He could even still be on the street; so out he dashed and down the lane. He ran as fast as e could, but there was nobody there at all. The road was deserted, except of the passing by cars and cabs. Sherlock had lost track. Panting he stopped. There was no use in running any further. He stamped a foot on the pavement in anger. Suddenly he heard something. A faint whaling at first, almost drowned by his own rotating thoughts, but when he concentrated on it, the sound became more distinct and eventually turned into a name. A name, only one person could know.

"Terrence! Terrence Walpole!"

He turned in an instance, just to see Zylphia sprint towards him. Completely out of breath, she clung to Sherlock's coat. Her hands were scattered and her jeans was torn, her knees grazed.

"Calm down! Zylphia!"

Her eyes widened when they met his. "He…he came out of your hotel…he…knocked me over…and…tried to…stab me…but I…could defend myself and…"

"What did he look like? Did he carry a bag or a sprayer-can?"

"A…a…", she was confused and scared like a young rabbit.

"Did he?"

"Yes! He was dressed all black and he wore military boots! Under his black jacket, he also wore other military stuff!"

"Identity?! Tell me! It's important!", Sherlock was putting her under pressure purposely, so she could recall more details.

"SM!"

"What?", he hadn't thought at all, that she had seen anything of him. Again this woman overwhelmed him. Slowly he felt something like a beginning of respect for her.

"How do you know that?"

"I…I have seen a monogram on the inside of his collar."

"Fascinating…"

"Who was that man? He is after you, isn't he?"

Sherlock looked down. He needed to go away from there; he couldn't possibly stay in this hotel.

"Yes. Yes, this guy's after me. But before I tell you anything else; if I was to tell you anything else, I need another place to stay."

"At my home! It's safe, I mean. Really, if there's a safe place for you, it's mine."


	17. Why?

Zylphia Hunt's apartment was rather big for a single-household in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. The neighbourhood was nice and clean, so were the houses around.

"How can you afford such an expensive apartment?"

"The husband of my late landlady gave me a special deal, because I helped out, when their child had died. Unfortunately his wife also didn't. Poor Claire jumped off a roof, because her daughter had fallen off her nanny's balcony."

Sherlock's heart almost skipped a beat, when he heard those words. He made a small noise that was so silent, that not even Zylphia noticed it. What the hell was John possibly doing to him?

"Truly tragic.", he replied in a sad voice.

"Yeah…she really was a good friend of mine. I wanted to move out after it all happened, but Roger insisted that I should stay. So I stayed and helped also him out of his misery."

They were now sitting in her living room, drinking hot tea. Zylphia was huddled in a soft blanket opposite Sherlock on the lounge.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you help all those people?"

"Because I like it, I suppose. I want my friends and fellow people to be happy. They deserve to be, you know?"

Again, there was John all over his mind. John was the one person who deserved most. But _why?_ Why was he thinking of things like this? Why did John deserve? And what? Caring was a disadvantage, and was love a vicious killer! So what on earth was wrong with Sherlock Holmes? John made his head fizzy and his brain dull, as long as he was away. But when he was there, Sherlock's senses were in their best form.

"I should go to bed now. Thank you for accommodation." He stood up and went to bed, with only John Watson in his head, and feelings that drove him to insanity.


	18. Believe

**Disclaimer (well, I'm not sure this needs one, but better one than none...):  
****I did neither own nor invent the "IBelieveInSherlock" movement!  
If you don't know it, have a look at this:  
**

**I really enjoy this movement! It's really great! :)  
**

* * *

About a week must have passed since then, but for John, it was months. He had learned to deal a little bit better, with the absence of his flatmate. He had even recovered so well, that he decided to go out, which was a big mistake; because as soon, as he left Baker Street and turned around the corner he saw the first poster; a poster with "I believe in Sherlock" on it, and a monochrome coloured picture of his late friend. Across the street on an old house there was a graffiti that read "Moriarty Was Real". To his left, on a lamp-post there was a pink sticky-note saying "I fight John Watson's war!". A cry got stuck in John's throat. That was by far too much. Gasping he ran home where he was safe from this cruel outside world.

He slammed the door behind him hysterically. Far too upset to question anything; to even think, he began to sob. The sobs turned into wailing. The wailing slowly turned into pleading.

"Sherlock! Oh god! I'm so sorry! I loved you so much! Why did you have to lave? Why couldn't I safe you? I loved you so much…If you had only known. You wouldn't have understood, would you…?"

Weary he sunk into the armchair. The armchair, where Sherlock had been sitting; but now he was so tired and shocked and confused, that he did neither mind nor even realise. His head was as empty as it was dizzy. The tears just wouldn't start to run; not until he fell asleep.

When he woke up, dawn was just about to come. The first pinkish clouds were on the sky, announcing yet another day of hoping. As soon as he felt strong enough, he got a pen and a sheet of paper, and began to write. He wrote again, heartfelt lines of a soldier, surviving day to day, fighting the battle of a grey life; lines that were never supposed to be read.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I have to tell you this, or otherwise…well I simply don't_

_Know who else to tell it. But, yesterday, I dared to go out on the_

_Streets again. I'm such a bloody idiot! The streets are all filled_

_With memories of you! People start to spray and write _

_Slogans! They write "Don't believe His lies!" "Rich Brook is a fraud"_

_And loads of other things. But what startled me most,_

_Were "I fight John Watson's war", and above all,_

_"I Believe in Sherlock!". For a long time now, I thought,_

_That I was the only person, who was left, believing in you…_

_And my life has indeed become a battle. This time, not in the bloody_

_Desert, this time in London. The only difference is, that there are about_

_A million other people fighting at my side this time. I'm not alone!_

_The people believe in me! They believe in you…in us!_

_Yet I feel so empty and dark inside…even if there's the_

_Knowledge of other folks beside me, I can't possibly say, how_

_Alone I am…still._

_Yours forever,_

_John_


	19. Moonlight Confessions Part I

It was the seventh night in Zylphia's apartment. There had been neither much talking nor any progress in the case since. She now had seen also the negative sites of the great detective. He had become bored, moody and often also depressive. He would lock himself in the room Zylphia had given him, and silently think. There was so much to consider, but nothing happened to make any sense lately. He would even go so far to say, that this last week was beginning to change him. He couldn't focus anymore, unless he thought of John. He could reproduce his smile and his voice, and he missed his queer, illogical behaviour. The problem was though, that his brain and his mind still didn't provide any solution or possibility what made him want John so much. Sherlock was desperate. Just until the seventh night, when he couldn't sleep. Again, he wandered off, exploring Zylphia through her possessions and photographs. He sometimes also watched her sleep, just because he wanted to read her; to deduce everything she had done all day long or maybe to understand all this crazy mess. He also wanted to understand why people felt like they did. This woman obviously knew everything about that matter.

It was about half past three in the morning. A dim, whitish light flooded the room faintly. It was full moon, and in the yard behind the window were no lanterns at all, so that the gentle rays were able to break through the thin, white curtains. Sherlock had just sat down on the sofa and pulled the knitted blanket closer around his pale shoulders, regarding this photo of him and John, when he felt someone behind him. It was just an instant before she actually spoke. She had frightened Sherlock to death, but he managed to keep controlled, so he just blinked the shock of the moment away. Automatically he put on a kind of arrogant face.

"You miss him far too much. I know, it's none of my business, but it helps if you told me; or at least someone…"

Ms. Hunt was apart from John and Mrs. Hudson the only person who could really deal with Sherlock's manners.

"You're right."

He could really feel her look contentedly at him from behind. They always did; until he continued.

"It is none of your business."

"Look, Terence…I've seen you creep about for a week now. You just lie around, and if you stand up, you look at my things as if you were going to steal something. And then, when you look at…him…you smile. I also often see this confusion on your face. I believe I've got to know you rather well in these last few days, believe it or not."

He had stopped listening, when she'd said his name. Suddenly he felt like it was all too much for him; he couldn't stand all this any longer. He wanted to call Mycroft and go home and curl up beside his sleeping soldier. There was so much he wanted to tell him; but most of all, he wanted to apologise for what he'd done.

"Stop.", he muttered. "Stop calling me like this."

She now sat beside him, yet keeping a cautious distance.

"But wh…"

"Because it's NOT my name!", he snapped.

Her mouth slightly opened; her glance wandered to the floor. There were no words left to say from her side. Who had she tought she was, that someone would safe her life, just like that? Now she had her final proof; there were no good people left on this planet. She should have jumped! It had been painful enough, to realise that this awesome man was gay, and didn't even know it himself; now he turned out to be a whole lie. Not even a shadow of the fantasies from the beginning resisted such a thunder. What a fool she had been…clinging to the last pieces of hope that he wasn't a fraud at all, her gaze demanded explanation.


	20. Moonlight Confessions Part II

Over thinking everything for what was ages to him, but only seconds in real life, Sherlock chewed his cheeks.

"It might be dangerous to tell all this, but simply can't stand it anymore. This tedious sort of confusion rots my brain and slows me down! I can't think!"

"So who the hell are you then? Move on!"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. Still the only one in the world, since I invented the job. The man on the photo is my flatmate Dr. John Hamish Watson, and every time I have to smile when I look at him. But feelings are dull and just for simple minds like his. It can't also be love, because it's a dangerous disadvantage; I would never fall in love. Married to my work; so no, you also never had a single chance. I constantly have to think about John and I want to go home and cuddle up beside him. I can't, though, because, as I already told you, I faked my own suicide, because I'm just about to hunt down the vast remainders of the most dangerous criminal-network in the world. Their leader was called James Moriarty. Shot himself in front of me one month ago. In order to save John, I pretended to jump off a roof. I just found a lead, but with messing up my hotel room they told me, that they'd found me."

The speed of his talking was once again unbeatable. And though he had occasionally dropped words or letters, Zylphia understood everything. She let the words into her brain as well as into her heart. She had heard his name before. Also had she skimmed over the article in "The New York Times" about the suicide of "The fake genius" in Britain. She remembered to have shook her head in disbelieve. Nothing of it had remained. But those were only the facts she had read somewhere. Now it was time to take a look at the person himself; the pale, tall man with the grey eyes and the fluffy, curly, brown hair. He had problems, big problems; and didn't know how to deal with his own feelings. He didn't even know that he was in love. She had also heard the slight hint of homesickness in his words.


	21. And what now?

Now those silver eyes looked at her, the expression begging for help, but yet, not believing to find it. One or two minutes, she had to think what to say best; whether to call him an idiot, or just to put a hand on his shoulder and offer him her thoughts. She couldn't take his problems away, obviously, but she could offer him an idea, that she thought, could help him deal with it all. "Look, you say, you don't fall in love. That's…well…mildly said, idiotic.", the expression that was now on his face, was almost comic. This was about an answer he hadn't at all expected. People called him loads of things, but when it came down to the term "idiot", it was more a thing that he called other people. Except John; he had also done it before.

"…why's that?"

"Also love is a thing that goes on in your brain. You might turn it down on a chemical reaction; but it's a reaction, that affects your behaviour-pattern. It can make you happy and sad, lethargic as well as euphoric. And there's always another person involved. You can't love your work. I mean, yes, in a way you can. You can say that you do. But not really. Neither emotionally nor physically. You can like it, if you're lucky. Ter…uh…Sherlock, I can see how miserable you're doing at the moment. But the most I can do is offer you a few ways to deal with it. It's a pretty bad situation, that's true, but denying anything doesn't make it any better; in the contrary; it'll become worse every day. And believe me, I know, what I'm talking about…"

Silence. Then: "So…what do you think I can do?", Sherlock's voice was low and hoarse.

He had for a moment, probably the very first time in his life, given up the stealth of his brain, and let his _true _feelings be visible.

"Well, you can't text or write him really…but one thing you could do, is write fictional letters. That means, that you write your feelings down in some way. The best way of expressing oneself is a letter. A letter you'll never send."


	22. Memories in gray and blue

Zylphia decided to give him some time. She had seen how hard this all was for him. She gone through all this through herself before, and ended up on the fence of BrooklynBridge, ready to jump. Apart from her nice apartment and her excellent job as a choreographer in a drama-and-dancing-school in Manhattan, her life hadn't been rosy at all. Her father had come over to New York with her, when she was about six. The sudden absence of her mother had never been properly explained to her. Her father, Robert Hunt, had died when she was eighteen and had just got her degree in drama and dancing. The year before she made her master in journalism and during her college-days, she had been writing for one or the other local paper. Yes, she had had friends, and she had had good grades, and for a moment even, she had seemed to lead a normal life, like everyone else did; until he had entered her life. Daniel Benyamin Goddard. It was her to ask for a date. It couldn't have been any better. Daniel seemed to be the smartest guy in the university. It was amazing that no one had realised that before her, but then again, she was proud to have found such a treasure like him; his thick dark-brown hair, his hazel-eyes, shining through thick glasses, his face full of expressions and emotions, but never really showing them anyone, except Zylphia. She had been the only one, permitted into his heart. It had been such a happy time; just until it was over. His father had been an important general in the army, who was richer than necessary. Daniel had never had good connections to his father; the result: arguments of the worst kind, about every time they saw each other. But when he had finally died, Daniel found himself feeling guilty for not having apologized. So it came, that the old libertine Daniel Benyamin, became Major Goddard, who went to war in Afghanistan. Zylphia hadn't seen him since he had gone, and the last thing she had ever heard of him was a tiny sheet, that said, he might be dead, but no one actually knew. She had seen no other way out, than giving up all pain.

The night before, Sherlock had simply stood up and went away once more. Zylphia didn't know, whether he had heeded her advice, or not, but she guessed, that he hadn't. He needed time. Intending to force him to eat something, she prepared breakfast. The scent of coffee was slowly filling the room, alongside the smell of toasted bread, and the sun was falling in through the half-folded blinds, beaming funny spots on the floor. The morning seemed to start rather well. Silent footsteps of bare feet on a wooden floor were to be heard.

"Good morning."

"Good morning!" Zylphia beamed a happy smile at Sherlock, hoping to cheer him up.

"How was your night?"

"Better than I had expected it to be. I think thanks to you. It seems, that I needed this rest…", he dropped the book from the library, with the blue sign on it meaningless on the table.

When Zylphia saw it though, her eyes widened.


	23. A spider's gigantic web

"You are familiar with this?!", Sherlock suddenly stood in front of her, looking threateningly angry, powerful and tall at once.

"I…I…", she was almost scared to death. Suddenly this helpless man seemed to have changed into a fierce tiger, waiting to hunt her down.

"No! No! It's just…I've seen it before! Danny!"

"Danny? Who's Danny?!"

"My…my fiancée…he went to war a month ago! I haven't seen him since."

Sherlock's outburst was over as soon as it had come up.

"What did he have to do with this cipher?"

"His father…before he died, he seemed to have sprayed it on the wall of his bedroom. I weren't there, but they've told me, that it was strange; a message for Danny, maybe, because after old Goddard's death, he joined the army and was sent to war."

"No."

"What?"

"I said, no. It wasn't a message; it was a threat. I also received one…I need to find out what it means."

"Oh my…", Zylphia sat down on a chair next to them.

"Who would want to threaten an old general with a heart disease?"

"Who would hire an old cabbie with an aneurism to force innocent people to commit suicide just for fun…"

She stared at him.

"Don't you read John's blog?"

There was no answer.

"What are you gonna do now?"

"Find out what these symbols are. Can I borrow your laptop? I need to know who "S.M." is, stupid enough to wear his initials while committing a crime of the outmost importance for his network…"

"What was the name of that guy…?", excitement lit up her eyes.

"The spider's name was James Moriarty."


	24. Phantasies

Sherlock felt the need to go out on his own. Partly to discover yet more of New York's life, pulses and veins, but also to do research on the mysterious initials and the man, probably the only one except of his brother, who knew he was alive, and even the only one in the entire world, who knew where he was. Now he was sitting in a cab, making his way home. The air outside was becoming cold, making people's breath visible. Once they stopped, and Sherlock saw a couple cuddling together like two penguins, and his thoughts trailed off immediately. In his mind, he saw John, snuggle into his side, seeking warmth in his taller body. He saw himself open his coat and wrap John in it, and almost felt the hot, damp clouds of his breath on his cheeks, as they kissed. But that was never to happen; not even if he could ever return, and John would actually forgive him, he wouldn't like it. John would never kiss him; this was the most logical assumption, but it was also the one that hurt the most.

Back home at Zylphia's, he instantly went into his room and slammed the door behind him. He didn't even let her say "hello". His hands were shaking. Body betraying mind one painful time more. Hesitantly he grabbed a pen and the nearest paper and began to write.

_John,_

_I'm so sorry, for everything I have done _

_to you, even if you are glad to be rid of me. I'm in New York right_

_now, following a trace that momentarily seems to lead nowhere._

_Anyway, do you remember this one evening in Dartmoor?_

_The one time, I told you, that I didn't have friends?_

_Well…I was drugged obviously…but now I'm not, _

_But I feel the same. My hands are shaking, and I cannot_

_Concentrate on anything, my pulse is elated, any my pupils are widened,_

_When I look into the mirror. I assume you want to know why, when_

_It's not drugs. Well…I believe it's you. It's the only likely reason,_

_Even if it sounds absurd. You are the only thing on my mind._

_I wish you were here. New York is such a interesting place,_

_ full of murder and crime, completely unlike London._

_I suppose the reason for this letter, you will never_

_Read anyway, is, not only the advice of…well…a_

_Friend…is that I love you. I need you._

_Yours forever,_

_Sherlock_


	25. Observer in the Dark

In the safety of the darkness of the roof on the opposite site of the street, a man was watching everything. The light was still turned on, the curtains were wide open and the view was as clear as a summer's day. Feelings were making his target slow, dull and reckless. First his assignment had been like every other that had been given to him, but then he had crossed a line; which he had better not done. He had killed Jim. Jim, who gave him sense, who made all these things we did feel right and good; Jim, who kept him safe and warm, when days were dark and cold; Jim, who wasn't there anymore. Now this bloody bugger had to pay the fee for crossing the clearly marked border. He wondered if his target already knew that he was being watched, or if he was too fixed on his own problems. The man in the shadows saw; but not only that; he observed. Jim had told him once, during a night of intimate togetherness, that, if he ever was to disappear, it was him to take revenge. He should wait for the most vulnerable moment, and then let it all end in a way that was worth it. His target was vulnerable, but something told him, that the perfect moment was yet to come. The man in the small room finished whatever he was writing; then he collapsed on the table. A silent, evil chuckle escaped the throat of the observer in the dark; the observer Sebastian Moran.


	26. A New Name With No Face

"You said he wore military clothing. Where was it from?", Sherlock was seated opposite Zylphia, clutching his mug tightly.

"What?"

The only reply was annoyed arched eyebrows. After a little while she understood.

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. But hell, I couldn't possibly tell where his clothes were from!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Why?"

"You serious? It was dark, he bumped into me like a crash-landing plane, and while knocking me over, just tried to stab be! That's why!"

This time just one eyebrow rose, giving him the unimpressed looks of a Vulcan citizen.

"Could you give me this piece of cloth you tore from his jacket?"

She handed him a tatty bit of cloth. On it were not only the remains of a name, but also a full surname.

"You only told me the letters S.M. Not that there is more!"

"Well, sorry. That was the only thing I've seen."

"Never mind. S. Moran."

"Who's that? Apart from Moriarty's successor, I mean?"

"No idea."


	27. Waking Up

Step by step he walked down the long pebble alleyway. A wide range of feelings of many kinds threatened to overwhelm him. The ground beneath him was muddy from all the London-October-rain that had fallen in the last few days. Clumsily he walked right into a puddle of dirty rainwater; water splashed, soaking his trouser legs. He didn't care. He cared about nothing anymore; nothing but Sherlock. He'd never realised how important this man ad been to him, until three weeks ago. Before that, he had thought this depression he was in, was only the trauma of seeing his best friend die. Time told him otherwise. Now he was sure there had been more. John also often hoped that this was just a silly mistake, a dream, maybe, and Sherlock wasn't dead at all. If this really was a dream, it was the worst kind of nightmare that was to be found on this world; and he swore, when he woke up, the first thing he'd do, was to kiss Sherlock passionately. There were things to be straightened up; he could see that now. But there would be no waking up ever again, because Sherlock Holmes was dead. John stopped before the black, shiny, tombstone. The flowers were battered by rain and wind, but it looked so beautiful and new. Hesitantly he traced the golden letters with his shaking hands. It was too much. John's knees gave in. He sank to the ground; sobbing. It was now, that he discovered the filthy, wet, whitish object on the foot of the stone.


	28. Describing the Devil

"You said, you knew Moriarty.", Zylphia walked alongside Sherlock on the pavement. He turned the collar of his coat up, before he started speaking. "Well, it's difficult to say one knows him. It's even more difficult to explain what he was like."

"Try it then.", being with a British citizen for so long, let her roots bubble up very quickly. There was almost nothing left of the New York accent.

"Moriarty…his name was James, was not a man. There was nothing at all human in him. He murdered where he wanted, or maybe more, he gave the orders and pushed the buttons, but without soiling his expensive suit. He blew up an old lady, made me jump off a roof, and more than everything else, he threatened John more than once. Like I said, Moriarty was not a man; he was a spider, hiding in the dark safety of his web of crime; just killing for fun and to build up supplies. An ended life was just a game to him. Nothing more."

Sherlock had obviously forgotten about Zylphia, because he automatically had paced up so that she had to step out to keep up with him. "Why is he after you anyway?"

"He decided, that I was in his way, for I was constantly putting his people to prison. I also believe that I infuriated him by not entering his side…" with the last words his voice died away, as if he had just discovered something of particular importance.

"What?! You've just discovered something! What is it?!" Zylphia now had to jog to keep up.

"I was just thinking, that he might have been jealous…"

In this very moment a shot rang out, closely missing Zylphia's head, and deafening both for an instant. The bullet hammered into the wall of the building behind them. A shadow vanished on top of the opposite roof vanished; unseen, even by Sherlock Holmes. Zylphia held onto Sherlock, as firm as she could; just a silly reflex. Sacred eyes met.


	29. Revenge on a Rooftop

Sebastian Moran sunk to the ground; panting. He'd hidden on the roof, the sniper ready; listening. He had heard every damn word they said; _he _said. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Jim had been right from the beginning; it was never good to know everything. He believed it now, even if he very much doubted that there wasn't a single thing on this earth that Jim hadn't known; Jim, the man who'd told him useful lessons in life; Jim, whose death was the fault of this detective person; Sherlock Holmes. Why was he interfering all the time anyway? What was it that made it so important to him to ruin all the plans they made? Well, meddling was one thing…but insulting an honourable man; a dead man; his man, was a completely different matter. Sebastian didn't want to kill him yet, but when he heard the words, this Holmes-person had used to describe Jim; he was a dead man in the eyes of Moran; even though he knew that a soldier always had to obey the instructions of his leader, he couldn't have possibly held his outburst back any longer. Without thinking, he had pulled the trigger. In the same instant he'd also realised what a dangerous mistake he made, and that he put the promise he made at stake. Quickly he shouldered his sniper and ran to the end of the roof. When he stood I front of the seemingly endless, gaping abyss of the two buildings, he could only jump. Now he sat there, about eight houses away, seeking revenge.


	30. Still Here

**Warning! Strong language!**

* * *

The door slammed open, and an outrageous John Watson came flying in followed by three elderly men, all hurling abuse at the younger one, because he'd been behaving more than bad.

Mycroft Holmes lifted his gaze calmly from the papers he was working on. It's a matter of common knowledge, that the members of the Diogenes Club don't much approve of the spoken word, or more, any sounds at all, but the breathing of the house itself. Therefore, it's no wonder that they had been very upset about the guy who came in and yelled for Mycroft Holmes. They also didn't like the names he'd been calling the most famous, and highly respected man in the whole institution; they were surprised though by his reaction on the ruffian. Elegantly he stood up.

"I do apologise for this immeasurable upset, gentlemen, but this young man is a close acquaintance of mine. I would highly appreciate you, to let me sort the matter out myself. Thank you."

The three men looked at each other in a very confused manner, than sent angry gazes at John, and left the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, John continued his outburst.

"Why?! Why have you done this?"

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, as it seemed to be a habit in his family, because it also made him look so very Vulcan.

"I have no idea whatsoever…"

"Oh don't you start this bloody bullshit! You know exactly what I'm talking about! Why have you done this to me? Have you any idea what I felt like these last three months? NO! You bloody hell haven't! NOBODY DOES! So why have you concealed that SHERLOCK'S ALIVE!?"

"John, I'm so very sorry. I know that I can never understand what you feel, or felt. But I have lost my brother and…"

John put both his hands in his pockets for an instant, just to pull them out separately again.

In one hand, holding a handkerchief, it was filthy, still wet, had some bloodstains on it, and monogram that read SH. The object that John had found at Sherlock's grave, despite all the rain, still even smelt of Sherlock; and in his other hand, he had a gun; a loaded gun that was held toward Mycroft Holmes.

It wasn't the sudden threat, or the gun that startled him, because John was fragile, and even though he seemed though and military, his mind was as flexible as a rubber duck in hell; but it was the handkerchief. His little brother had had it with him, the day he had killed Moriarty. Mycroft had always thought Sherlock would've taken it with him, wherever he was right now; he was the only one who could've placed it somewhere John would find it. Blinded by sympathy and affection for John, he didn't see what consequences this stupid action would have. Mycroft had also desperately tried to keep Sherlock away from the funeral, but he'd had not the tiniest of chances. But now, because of the endless stupidity of his brother, he had to improvise for his life.

"No, John. Sherlock is dead. There is nothing anyone can do. Neither you, nor me."

As these words entered John's mind, and made him realise, the gun changed its direction; against the temple of its owner.


	31. A Million Miles

Breathing was hard. Both their lungs burned like fire, even though Sherlock was very athletic. There was a vast difference of temperature between October in London and October in New York. The air felt like razorblades, and made every breath taste like blood. Rain had started to fall, but to run was the only escape. There had been no time to explain, but taking a cab was useless; they had to flee there, where no cab could ever go. So they crossed narrow streets, moving against the direction of the usual flow, of New York's pulse until there was no sign of any pursuer anymore. When the chase was finally over, they sank against a wall. Nobody else was there; just them and the heavy rain. Zylphia coughed painfully.

After a while panting for breath, Sherlock knew that he had to go away from New York; away from the States. But where? Where should he go, so he was safe? Suddenly he had the solution.

"I…I have to leave."

The answer came muttered under her heavy breath.

"Fine. I'm coming with you."

"No. Out of question. You don't even have a clue where I want to go; and you'd be just distracting me. No way."

Hesitantly they stood up.

"I bet I wouldn't. Look, this all made me realise, how much I want to run away from this place. This dreadful city! So many things have ruined my life, since I came here, one bad occasion after the other. And you were so damn right, suicide is never an option. But not caring, is something different. I simply don't care anymore if I come back to England alive or dead…I just want to finally come back home."

"I don't want to go back. Not yet."

"I know. But I do; and your destination is also London. Sherlock, you need someone to be with you. I know, I couldn't get to you, even if was to turn the universe upside down…or maybe if I was to kill five people and not get caught…and that's why I like you even more. I don't have any intentions but seeing you home, and coming back myself."

There was a longs silence; but they kept walking side by side right towards the next street with cabs in it. Both of them shivered; there was hardly any body warmth left, so there wasn't much sense in warming each other either. Finally Zylphia paced up and stopped in front of Sherlock. He had to look at her now; her unnaturally light blue eyes piercing into his.

"So, where do you want to go?"

He considered a while what she'd said, replayed every single word again in his mind.

"Szitzerland. I want to see the ReichenbachFalls."


	32. Pounding Hearts

"Put the weapon down, John. There's no need to do this. You can spear us both an immense amount of trouble, if you would just talk to me. Tell what this is all about. Tell me the exact nature of your problem…"

"So that's what it's all bout!", John didn't mean to scream, but this anger he suddenly felt inside made him blurt out these words.

"I have to put a gun to my own head, so you listen?! So how did THIS appear on his grave, if it wasn't Sherlock who put it there? Tell me!"

"John I…"

"DON'T JOHN ME ALL THE TIME…", his voice gave in along with his knees. Sobbing he sank to the floor, the gun still pointing at him.

"…tell me he's alive…I need…I can't…"

"I cannot do this. I was the one who placed this handkerchief on his tomb three days after the funeral, just sentiment. He was my brother after all."

Mycroft's heart pounded heavily in his chest. The few seconds that passed felt like ages; but finally, John slowly put down the gun. With tears running down his cheeks, and his voice all croaky, John finally whispered, "Could I possibly get some tea, please?"


	33. The Essence of Silence

Silence was essential; silence was everything. They'd only gone to a bank to get some money without using their credit cards; directly afterwards, they'd rushed to LaGuardia. Everything had happened very quickly; too quick for even Sherlock Holmes' mind to understand. Over the ocean there was a huge storm about to come in; their flight was probably one of the last to be permitted to take off. Now Zylphia and Sherlock were seated in a plane, crossing the Atlantic Ocean, making their way to Munich, and then, arriving five hours later in Bern with a train. From there, they would travel to Meiringen, probably with a rented car.

They had been lucky, and got seats next to each other. Nobody said something. Zylphia had fallen asleep, her head leaning against her companion's shoulder. Meanwhile Sherlock thought about it all once more. He knew she'd been lying when she'd said that she didn't mind that she had no chance on him. He also realised, that it was now him to owe her a favour; yes he was ready to admit, at least to himself, that he owed her his life. She'd been right from the start; he needed someone to talk to, someone who really listened, not just something that resembled a human being, like his skull had done before. He needed Zylphia, he needed Mycroft, he needed John, but most of all, he needed the people surrounding him. For the first time in his life, he could see that now. Suddenly he felt the need to share his new awareness, and dug out a piece of paper and a pen.


	34. Denying the Facts

He had poured his heart out in front of Mycroft Holmes, the one also referred to as "the Iceman". How bizarre life can be sometimes…

He had told him everything, his voice sometimes drowning in tears. Yes, everything but two things. He had with no word mentioned the letters, there was nobody who would ever get to know about this; and then he'd also concealed the word love, yet if it was the shortest term for everything he had to tell. When he was finished, though, he felt clearness in him. Talking to somebody had helped him a great deal. On the other hand, not even Mycroft, the Government, could bring Sherlock back to life again. The older Holmes had often told him, that it was all over, and John had to forget about Sherlock, but John hadn't believed a word of it. Somewhere deep down in his soul, he knew that he was alive, he could feel it with every fibre of his body now; or was it just denying the facts?

* * *

Molly Hooper stood alone in the morgue. It was dark outside by now, but she didn't mind. It was always dark down here. The file she was currently studying was far more important. Once again a triple murder, that hadn't been solved. Since Sherlock was away, the rate of the unsolved cases had increased unbelievingly. London seemed to degenerate without this strange detective. Suddenly the door opened, tearing Molly away from her thoughts, making her drop the file, spreading the sheets of paper, and photographs all across the floor.

"Molly! I'm sorry!", came a voice she'd thought she'd never hear again.

"John! What are you doing here?"

"…I…I don't really know…I just can't seem to handle that Sherlock…"

He didn't need to speak on; it was just too obvious.

"Yeah…it's a shame, isn't it? He was such a great detective, if not a bit mean…"

John gave her an angry look.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, John! I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright…Molly. It's fine. Just…just help me."

"Right. But how?"

John's eyes pierced into hers, with an expression, so serious, that made her shiver.

"I need to know the truth. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"


	35. Unkown Caller

Oh how much she'd loved to say yes! But she couldn't. She remembered the night when Sherlock had come to her. She had offered him her help some time before; now he had taken her offer. She'd been just about to leave, when he had caught her.

"Molly!" he looked around as if to make sure they weren't watched. Ah. He must have been looking for John. When she came closer, she noticed the fear and the immeasurable sadness in his eyes. For the first time, she could understand that even Sherlock Holmes was a human being, with actual feelings.

"You said that I could come to you, whenever I needed your help. I believe the time has come…"

What followed had been absolutely ridiculous. Faking his death. Falling from a rooftop. Top secret. Telling no singe soul on the entire planet. Nobody. Just Mycroft Holmes would know. Most of all not John. A body was needed.

When he had finished, his voice cracked, but he didn't cry. Not yet, Molly was sure of that.

She knew, that, as soon as she would leave the room, the outburst would come. Despite the awkwardess, she couldn't resist. She could see how much he needed her; so she agreed. Two hours later a call had come in. The person on the phone didn't tell her his name; he didn't have to. It had to be Sherlock's elder brother. Molly had only once seen him before, but she had remembered his voice and his bizarrely choice of words.

"Mrs. Hooper", he said after asking how she was.

"My actual reason for calling you at such a late hour, is that you must by all means know, that what you are about to do, is of international importance. I presume you have already been informed about the strict discretion that comes with the matter?"

"…well…yeah…?"

"I will inform you again, that you must not tell anyone about the project. I hope you are clear on that. If you ever tell a single person about this, the damage will be of immense and unthinkable nature. Above all persons stands Dr. John Watson. He has the highest priority."

There was a short pause.

"Is it now clear to you?"

Molly had been absolutely dumbstruck. Her view was clouded, but with the last bit of concentration she finally managed to answer.

"Yes, Sir."

"Fine. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I wish you a pleasant evening."

Quite a long time after the line had been dead already, words would come to her.

"Never mind."

As she remembered all these words and this terrible feeling, tears slowly started to run down her cheeks. The mist in her eyes was there again. The words that were now shouted at her, came from far away. She had to be strong now!

"Molly! Is Sherlock alive! Tell me the truth!"

"No! No! He is dead, John! You saw him jump yourself!", she didn't mean to shout, but the feelings just were too strong.

"John…please…just…I'm…so sorry. I didn't…"

"It's…it's alright. I am sorry.", she saw that he was lying at her. What else could he say? John was a fine chap, he'd always been, but it wasn't alright. Molly doubted that it would be ever again. Now it was her to just trust in Sherlock and his brother, to turn everything right again.

John turned around and left the room quite rapidly. Molly just stared at the door. Suddenly her mobile vibrated in her pocket and tore her thoughts into bit and pieces. Confused she managed to take the call from an unknown participant. The voice was cold and serious, but yet familiar. "Very well done, Dr. Hooper.", said Mycroft Holmes.


	36. Sentiment

_Dear John,_

_I'm on my way to Switzerland now, in the Southeast_

_ there is a big storm coming in; I can see the clouds and the colours._

_I have to admit, that it is the most beautiful _

_natural phenomenon I've ever seen!_

_I believe the reason why I go to the Reichenbach Falls now,_

_Is nothing but pure sentiment. It really is curious, that_

_The feeling I disregard(ed) the most, is now the one that_

_Leads me. I read your last blog-entry, you know?_

_How could I ever forget the moment, when we returned this painting._

_To be honest, I've always quite liked it. Once I'd like to come here…with you._

_Oh John, please tell me to be strong!...oh…yeah…right, you can't. I'm so sorry._


	37. Chasing Trains

Flight is never an easy thing, especially when things don't turn out like they should.

The first dilemma was that there was no train from Munich that would go straight to Bern or even Zurich or anywhere near their destination. The only possibility had been to change the train in Salzburg, Austria.

Sherlock looked at all the signs and diversions. The huge train station was being renewed entirely.

"We have to go there!", he finally shouted and literally ran away, leaving a confused Zylphia behind. She'd learnt French at school, but didn't understand a syllable of the German language.

"How the hell can you be so sure?", she followed him fast-paced.

"The destination board says "Bahnsteig 2", so I'm heading for Bahnsteig 2!"

When Zylphia still looked confused, Sherlock just grabbed her wrist and tore her down some stairs, and up again. Many angles and corners were to be passed before they arrived at "Bahnsteig 2". In the same moment, a female voice was to be heard.

"_Achtung Bahnsteig 2A-D, der Zug nach Bern färht ein. __Attention platform 2A-D, the train to Bern is now arriving."_

Zylphia looked at the genius-detective in utter astonishment. Sherlock gave her a little smirk.

"I told you.", added in a voice that was supposed to be annoyed, but couldn't hide the amusement about her gaze.

Central Europe was noticeably cooler than New York at this time of year. Zylphia was really relieved when she got on the heated train. Still shivering, she sat down in the soft, cushy seat next to the window. Sherlock occupied the seat opposite her. Five minutes passed until the train started to move with a soft bump. It was dark outside, but the city with its classicistic castle was beautifully illuminated. Zylphia sighed.

"You don't approve of it, do you?"

"Pardon?", she seemed to have disturbed his thoughts.

"Oh…sorry. I just assumed that you don't approve of this fantastic view…"

Something inside Sherlock wanted to be true, and wanted to show her, that he was also a human being, with feelings and a good sense for beauty, but then again, there was his proud that prevented him from doing so. The thing was though, that Zylphia had already got see what was imprisoned underneath the thick wall of pride and scars.

"A perfectly right assumption."

"Of course…"

Baffled for only an instant he looked at her, before he put his all-knowing mask back on and ignored her.


	38. Unnoticed Tears

The next five hours went by very fast. Zylphia sketched Sherlock with a pencil and paper she'd bought in Munich. Sherlock mostly looked out of the window and thought. Sometimes he would also go and have a look at the train or study people. Sleeping was not an option to him. Once he returned and his companion was fast asleep. His companion; shouldn't that be someone else? Soon, very soon everything would be rectified.

"Sherlock?"

Zylphia had woken up.

"Tell me about him."

"About whom…", now he realised that she'd known all day long, that there was more than a cold-hearted genius within him.

"Oh…how did you know?", it felt strange to ask this question, because he was usually the one to be asked. Zylphia only tapped her cheek. When Sherlock did the same, he felt something wet. John had successfully driven him to the outset of feelings, in every sense of the term.

He had told her everything. Every fact, that is. For his own sake, he could not once use the word love; even it was on his mind constantly. He had described the way the thoughts of Dr. Watson made him feel; why he wanted him back and what he planned to do if everything was back to normal. The letters though, also stayed unmentioned. When he was finished, there was only an hour left, until they had to change the train in Zurich.


	39. Sneaking Out

The small hotel was a more than traditional place; the staff all wore the classical clothes, one expects when coming to Switzerland, and it was near the Reichenbach falls; only one half hour walk away, over narrow paths and stony ways. Winter was already showing its signs, and there were little heaps of snow, scattered here and there. The problem was, though, that also the path, up to the falls, was closed down for the icy season.

"Let me handle the check-in, right?"

Zylphia shrugged. What could she do? She didn't understand one word of the German language. Especially Switzerland. They approached the reception, where a beaming young, handsome man was already waiting to welcome his next guests.

"Guten Tag, und willkommen im Gasthof Reichenbach. Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

(Hello, and welcome to the hotel Reichenbach. How can I help you?)

"Guten Tag. Wir hatten gehofft, dass bei Ihnen ein Zimmer frei ist..."

(Hello. We hoped that you have a room left...)

Zylphia was getting impatient. "Serlock! What does he say?"

"Calm down, I just asked for a spare room."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I just can't stand it, if someone speaks a language I don't understand, and I'm left out..."

The young man behind the counter looked up from his computer and said, with a stong Swiss-accent, "That is no problem at all, Madame. I can also speak English, if you like. I didn't know that you come from England."

"Fine. But do you have free rooms?" Sherlock had no sympathy for these niceties.

"We have only one, but it does not seem to be a problem."

Zylphia looked at both men. Sherlock just ignored her, and continued the conversation. "Oh, perfect! Come on honey, let's go." He put his arm around her waist as he took the key. Zylphia appreciated the short time, she was held tight by him. As soon as they were round the corner, he let go of her.

Fifteen minutes later, they were settled in. But Zylphia was worried. "What are you going to do now?"

"I want to see the falls."

"Alright. And then? Have you worked anything out, about this Moran person?"

"He's no longer any concern of ours. He'll have taken on another job, because he failed at killing me. These people never are personal."

"Doesn't that mean, we're safe?"

"I wish it would. I really do." There was no further explanation coming from his side. So the next thing that happened for hours, was nothing; or at least it looked like nothing. Zylphia was again sketching her companion, while he was brooding over the current situation, until she finally fell asleep. Sherlock jumped from the chair, wrote a note for Zylphia and dashed out to conquer the way to the Reichenbach falls.


	40. Defying the Abyss at Night

It was almost dark, the sky was clear; the air was alpine and cold, the first stars were to be seen, and the moon was about to rise. Sherlock looked at the barrier, and just managed to hold back a loud laugh. He looked around, before he jumped over the barrier and began to make his way to the water falls. He'd gone about a mile or so, when he began to smell the water. The way was difficult to pass, and slippery, but he eventually made it. Sherlock had more than once almost lost his torch, so he was glad, that he arrived with some light.

He looked around. The sky was coloured in a dramatic shade of red on the horizon, smoothly turning into blue, and eventually a deep black. The water was quite loud now, but its pleasant scent was now stronger than ever. He remembered the painting; every detail of it. The beauty hadn't been in it. The picture was romantic and nice; probably a dreamy even. The real place though; the ground, where he was standing now, was described in one word: beautiful. Sherlock was now, finally able to understand, what common people, like John, liked about landscapes, if it wasn't the murders. It was the feelings they came with it. So he stood there, for quite a long time, until he noticed that his fingered were getting numb, because of the cold.

Carefully, he made his way back. The path was broadening again, when suddenly a dark figure appeared, and started to attack him. Moran! He had a knife in his right hand, and Sherlock was sure, that it wasn't the only weapon he carried with him. Sherlock managed to escape every attack, because his enemy was furious; out of control. "Interresting", he thought, "that a hired assassin would want to fulfil his job with such an enthusiasm. There must be more!" and with the awareness came the plan; and the plan brought relief, because it meant coming home to John. Finally, there was a silver lining. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a sharp pain, and warm blood began to drench his shirt. Moran laughed with joy.


	41. How to be Dead

"Not so clever now, huh?! I'll kill you, just like you did with Jim! The only difference is, that you will suffer!"

"He killed himself! I didn't do anything!" Fortunately, it wasn't a big wound, thanks to his thick coat. The blade had cut his coat, his shirt and a long, but not deep, wound in his upper arm. Nothing to be worried about. Moran wanted to start another attempt, but Sherlock moved aside, and made him tumble over his foot. Moran lost his knife. Sherlock picked it up. When Moriarty's man, wanted to stand up, the detective punched him, and then banged his head against a tree. Now he ran away as fast as he could, for he needed Moran alive, and angry. Now he would follow him anywhere, and that was good.

Back at the hotel, Zylphia was already waiting for him. When Sherlock entered their room, she almost got a heart attack.

"Oh god! What have you done! Sherlock, you need a doctor!"  
"You're probably right, but in another sense. I can go home now, Zylphia."

She was overwhelmed. "You...you still need help. Look at you!"

"I need to call someone."

"First you have a shower, and I'll have a look at your arm."

"No, you don't understand..."

"Just go, already!"

After a hot shower, he had his wounds cleaned by Zylphia. The next important thing was to call his brother, and tell him his plan.


	42. How to Return

Back in London, Mycroft's phone was ringing. He was just having tea with a good acquaintance of his; the Prime Minister. When he apologised, and took the call, his eyebrows rose. "Where are you?"

"Switzerland, but that's not important. I know how to hunt him down. But therefore, I have to come back to Baker Street."

"It's just one person?"

"Exactly. He's now pulling the strings. After him, there's nobody left. He's the last heir in Moriarty's line."

"You're getting dramatic."

Sherlock ignored him.

"So, you do you think to get him?" Mycroft asked with a voice that sounded anything but interested.

"Is the flat opposite 221b still unrented?"

"As it happens, it is. But what do you want to do with it? I hope you haven't planned to set up an explosion..."

"For heaven's sake! Think! If I wanted to blow him up, I could have made it right here! I want to have him arrested by Lestrade. So, organise a flight to London for two persons. Someone else will also find her way back home."


	43. The Final Letter

It was good. No other adjectives. Just good. Maybe great even. Neither boring, nor dull, nor tedious, nor any of the other words he often used to describe things. Sherlock took a deep when he stepped out of the airport, into the rain. He didn't care. He was home; John was near. Suddenly, there was a thought in his mind. What about the woman. No; not a woman, but Zylphia. She was so much more. She had made him see what really counted. Only one person had ever tried to do so before, but didn't succeed. Her name was Molly Hooper. It didn't matter anymore, now he was home, did it?

"What about you?" the words came deeply from his throat. He knew they were his, but he didn't feel them. He didn't feel anything right now.

"What?"

"Where will you go? Do you have any financial means? My brother-"

"Oh! Right. I don't need no money, mate. I can easily make a living." Her American impact was suddenly gone, and gave way to a really convincing kind of Cockney. Sherlock looked at her confusedly. She imitated his expression.

"What now?"

"Double negative."

"Dude, I was mocking you. But, really...I mean, I don't know, if you ever do...but just...just let me visit you at times. Ok?"

He nodded. "I care. Not for many people, to be honest. But I do. You are one of them."

And before the driver of the black limousine could see it, Sherlock placed a soft kiss on Zylphia's forehead. Without looking at her anymore, he wanted to get into the car, when she called him back once more.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wait! You've lost this in the plane." She handed him a neatly folded paper with coffee stains on it.

"I didn't read it, don't worry."

"Thank you." Sherlock knew that she was telling the truth, but her eyes said, that she knew exactly what was written on this paper. It was Sherlock's last letter to John, before coming home.


	44. No More Ghosts (The Empty House I)

"So how have you planned to do it?" Mycroft said before Sherlock was in the room. The room was Mycroft's not so very little office in the "Diogenes Club". "I'm also pleased to see you again, brother. Well, it will be a rather complicated matter. I'll need John for it. I have to return to Baker Street and reveal myself to him. It won't be easy."

"I shall have him disarmed before your arrival."

"Oh come on Mycroft! It's John!"

"Yes, that is exactly the point! I've seen him! I know what he's able to do! And the fact that it is Dr. John Watson! Are you really so naive? You should know about him. When it comes down to you, he doesn't know such a thing as mercy." Mycroft's eyes were ice, and even colder.

"You're right." Sherlock sighed. "The rest of it will be quite easy. I have a plan. I also need Lestrade on my side. Yes, that'll do. The man is blind with rage and hate. He won't notice the scam."

"You don't need my help then?"

"As if you wouldn't have an eye on me. Or probably even more. As a matter of fact, I need your help with another thing."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose expectantly.

"I want you to survey a woman. She might need me from time to time. I owe her quite much, as it is. Her name: Zylphia Mercy Hunt. Arrived together with me."

The younger one made his way out, but stopped again, with one hand on the door handle.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"It really is good to see you again."

24 hours later. Dr. Watson was on his way home. During a walk, had accidentally bumped into Lestrade, who had treated him to coffee and a donut. He didn't refuse, for old times' sake, but since he met the DI, he felt as if he was being watched. John constantly kept looking around on his way home, yet he wasn't able to make anyone out in the crowds around him. Sherlock's words immediately came to his mind, _"Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

Words long ago, but never forgotten. After a while, he was sure that he was becoming paranoid, and tried to stop thinking about it. He even tried so hard, that he bumped into somebody. He couldn't see the person. The only thing he noticed was, that he was pretty tall; and slender.

Finally home again, John let himself in. A strange feeling was bubbling up inside him, but he couldn't tell where it came from, or what it was. Just strange. He made himself tea; again, shaking off the thoughts. Suddenly the doorbell rang. Grumbling, John went down to open.

"Yes?"

There was an utterly ugly, old man with a hunch on his back. What was strange about him though, was that, despite the hunch, he was quite tall.

"You Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, that's me. What do you want?"

"Sorry to disturb you, sir. I just wanted to return this. You've lost it, you see?" The man with the lower-class dialect handed him his wallet.

"Oh shit! Thank you! Where have you found it?"

"Found it near St. James Park. Wanted to give it back earlier, but I'm not that quick anymore., see? Had to follow you all the way."

"Of course. Thank you so much. Do you want to come in and have tea? Kettle's just boiled."

"Thank you, sir."

"Please, sit down." The old man sat down in Sherlock's former armchair.

"Oh, could you please not..."

"What?"

"N-Never mind. Just-just stay where you are. It's all fine."

The man shrugged.

"Here you are." John handed the man his tea, but his hands were shaking so he dropped the cup. "Oh my, I'm so so sorry!"

"Uh...um...never mind, I'll go and fix it. Please, stay. It's alright."

John rushed away, and the stranger started to pull off his clothes. And his skin.

"Here I am ag-" John stopped. Instead of the old man with the hunch, there was a familiar figure standing there, looking out of the window. The person turned around and showed his true face. It was Sherlock Holmes. John's every muscle tensed, and before he could say anything, John approached him, and hit him in the face, with all the strength he had left. Oh damn. This man was real! It wasn't just another hallucination. This was all he could think, before he blacked out.


	45. Have you missed me?

Waking up was painful. Not painful in the physical sense, but the pain sat deep, deep down in John consciousness. There was the utter terror of seeing this face again. This couldn't be real! He was dead and gone! Forever! Forever... Forever? He wasn't yet able to open his eyes. Wasn't that what he had wished for all this time? Had every single night he'd stayed awake, and cried and shouted and screamed and sobbed and cursed suddenly lost its meaning? Could he ever forget what this man had done to him? But then, suddenly, he remembered who he had cried all these million tears for. It was for Sherlock Holmes; and for no one else. He dared to open his brownish eyes. The darkness fled in slow-motion. There was nobody in the room. Had it been imagination after all? The answer was now presenting itself. No. Of course not. There had never been such thing as a lie in their life together. The only lie had been called "Richard Brook".

Sherlock entered the room with a tray of steaming mugs. When he saw though, that John was awake, something entered his self conscious expression; something John had seldom seen before in this face: abashment.

"Oh. You're awake." The detective desperately tried to sound cool. "G-good to see you again. I made you some tea if you want."

"...why...?" John's voice was still weak. He felt dizzy, and a bit sick. He had to admit that he could really use the tea right now.

"Well, I thought you'd want some...was I wrong?"

He didn't feel like laughing at all, but John couldn't hold back the smile that now entered his face. Sherock's befuddlement was just too amusing.

"I don't mean the tea-" he couldn't say the name. Feelings kept him from doing so.

"I see." Sherlock sat down on the floor in front of the leather-sofa where John was lying. "Well, there is a wide variety of reasons I had to go. The main reason though, was to safe you. They would have killed you, and I couldn't let them. I would have actually jumped down this roof, in order to prevent you from being shot. I have to thank Molly Hooper and Mycroft a lot for helping me, you know?" He handed John his mug. "Watch out. It's still hot."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "You're a good man, Dr. Watson, but..." he paused. "...it wasn't safe. I couldn't tell anyone. Not even Mycroft knew where I was, until yesterday evening."

"Where-where were you all the time? Or can't you tell me?"

"Oh, no! I _have _to tell you. Because...because..." this time he stopped entirely.

"Because what?..."

"Before I go on, let me ask you a question. Just this one in return."

"Alright."

Sherlock's eyes moved quickly; examining every detail of John's face in a second. He saw everything he had done within the last week, and longer. He saw the nightly tears, the depression, and the disapproval of food. God, he knew it all too well himself. He still had to ask; just to be sure.

"Have you-have you um...missed me?"

"God, you gotta be joking! Sherlock, you bloody idiot!"

Sherlock had prepared for many things, but more for the words he had said, than the ones that were about to come. "Of course I have bloody well missed you!"


	46. Recognition

Sherlock took a deep breath. Good. This was good; not exactly what he had predicted to hear, but it healed at least some of his wounds and strengthened his hopes again. Thoughts began to race. The engine started to move again. Slow at the beginning, but becoming faster with every active moment. _I need to tell him. Now is the moment for truth. He is focused on me, expects reaction. Quick! No! No, not now. Can't tell him. Later. He'll understand. Focus! Focus on now! Pull yourself together Sherlock! Yes! Keep calm and return to old self...eliminate all feelings...no...I shouldn't. It hurts...I. Have. To._

"Sherlock?" , John stared at his freshly resurrected friend. "Are...are you alright?"

"Huh, what?"

"Ar-"

"Oh. Yes of course I'm alright!" now Sherlock had managed to mime the man he had once been. He watched the puppet dance, which he now played in front of John. Mycroft had been right when he'd said that it was easy to make him dance. And when Sherlock would have been completely honest with himself at this time, he would have admitted to be disgusted with what he felt. But as it happened he wasn't. He just played on. Feelings would have to wait.

"But...I've missed you too, John. I hope you know that..."

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Sherlock. I hope _you_ know that."

"Sherlock sighed heavily. "Let's be frank: I'm up to catch this bastard who did this to you, and now it's my turn to burn his damn heart out of him! But I need your help; I need my blogger, John!...so what do you say? Would you forget it all for just a moment, and come with me?"

There were many ways to describe John Watson's feelings at this moment; there was mainly anger, fear, confusedness, sadness, love, and another wide variety of emotions, but somehow his mouth was once again faster than his brains.

"'Course." He blurted out.

"Excellent!" Sherlock couldn't hold himself back any longer and squeezed and hugged John so hard, that he almost lifted him up. "Yes! I hoped you would come!"

"Yeah, alright, Sherlock...calm down! And let me down, first of all!"

After settling down and finally drinking the tea, John was ready to speak again. "So who are we going to catch anyway?"

"His name is Colonel Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's henchman, pet, and very certainly his lover."

"What? Could you say that again?"

"His lover. Is that a problem?" Sherlock eyebrows narrowed so hard that they almost touched in the middle.

"No, not that! His name!"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran-"

All blood seemed to withdraw from John's face in this very second. His hands grabbed the armchair, and the rest of his body sunk deeper into the cushioned fabric.

"Oh my god..." he finally stammered. "This can't be real!"

"What?! What is it?"

"I know him, Sherlock." John's voice was barely audible now. "Sebastian fought in the same war as I. We were friends..."


	47. You've got your gun (The Empty House II)

The discussion; commenced by a long silence; took by far too long. If there was one thing that came unexpected in this case, then it was the fact that John knew the enemy- and even worse- was friends with him. This possibly also had its good sides. John could lure Moran to every spot Sherlock needed him to be. But no! No, no! John insisted that he didn't- under any circumstances- wanted to be the stool pigeon. But the penny finally dropped and the plan was made, when John; dear John, tried to turn the tables on Sherlock.

"No, No-Sherlock...no. I don't want to do this, and I am not...doing it. I hope you understand that I simlpy can't trust you like that anymore."

"Yes, yes, fine...we don't have the time for this now..." and Sherlock muttered to himself "come on...think! Think!"

"Oooh, alright. But just to finish what I was saying: you can _lure_ him yourself if you like it so much."

Sherlock gave a start as if struck by lightning. "Arrwww! John! You really are..." he trailled off. "This idea could have been mine! You are great!"

The old enthusiasm had got hold of him; just as it had been in the old days. Deep down in John's heart, somewhere, where everything was still alright, in the very corner where Sherlock would never die, he was glad to his...friend...like this. But as it happened, this darkness was reaching so far down, that this emotion wouldn't yet see the light for a long time to come. "Cheers." John waited for Sherlock to calm down (at least a bit). "So, what have you got in mind? Are you going to serve as stool pigeon now?"

"No, not me, but someone else...I'll tell you the exact plan when we meet by the front door in..." Sherlock looked meaningfully at his watch. "in half an hour."

"Where do you want me to go in this time?"

"To your room. Please. But, John, you _mustn't_ come back into the living room. You might spoil everything."

John looked at Sherlock with a mixture of disbelief and amazement.

"Well, off you go!" Sherlock finally exclaimed, and underlined his statement with a half-hearted gesture.

Exactly thirty minutes later, the men met before the entrance of their home. Many a person would have been impressed by Sherlock Holmes; the tall, slender man with the dark curls and the expensive coat and scarf; and so was John Watson. The newness of this view would never wear off.

"So, here I am. I think...this would be the right moment to tell me your plans, Sherlock. Don't you think."

There was a little pause. "Not now John. We're not safe yet. Come with me...but shushhhh!" he put a finger to his lips. "Be silent until we're there. I'll tell you everything then, because I'm sure we'll have some time to fill. Oh! And...ahhhhh. Good! You've got your gun! It's good that you think."

"Wouldn't follow you without her, you see.", and it was then, that Sherlock and John smiled happily at each other. Yes, the final chapter had been opened, the end was near; the game was on.


	48. The game is on!

Corners, streets and roundabouts; it wasn't for the first time that John was glad that his companion knew the streets of their hometown so well. But now that he was silently walking after Sherlock, he realised that there were many questions to be asked. Anger made no sense; it never had, actually. And so they walked on, Sherlock leading John, who was always half a step behind. Twenty three minutes and thirty nine seconds passed until the front man suddenly stopped.

"There we are!" he exclaimed. John wanted to look around, but a hand grabbed his sleeve almost violently; it gave him the bad feeling that Sherlock was afraid.

"Stop it!" he hissed. "I said I'll explain everything to you, and I'll do it! But for god's sake John! Don't look around!"

"But I don't even know where we are!"

"Any moment!" Sherlock unlocked the door and almost dragged John in. He exhailed heavily.

"Alright. Now we can talk."

"Good. Where are we?"

"What, you haven't realised where we are...?"

"Obviously not."

Suddenly Sherlock pressed John against the wall. Both men breathed heavily because of the shock. Chest to chest they could feel the other one's racing heartbeat. A car went by outside.

"Oh, one last thing...keep away from the windows. Now go upstairs. I'll follow you."

"You still haven't told me where we are."

"Baker Street, John!"

"Are you..." he managed to get a glance out of one of the dirty windows, just to see the golden letters 221b reflecting the light of the street lamps.

"But...we walked for 20 minutes!"

"I wanted to make sure nobody is following us. Moran really seems to be the last heir of Moriarty's network. And he wants to get me alone. Ahhhh. You stupid man. As outrageous as you are, you have fired your hundreds of minions and left them to die, you idiot! Hah!" Sherlock gave a short, loud laugh. "Alright... what else do you want to know?"

"First of all: what are we up to here?"

"You'll see the essence of my plan soon enough, but I can tell _your _part."

"How generous..."

Sherlock just looked flustered at the remark. The he shaked his head briefly. "Well, we hide, waiting for Moran. He'll come here. I sent him a message and-"

"You _SENT_ him a message...?!"

"Not in the sense you'd believe. Let's say, I let him know where to find me...So when he arrives here, you wait for my signal, which you will recognise when you see it, and then things will go their way."

"Sounds easy enough...but there's one problem."

"What would that be?"

"You have absolutely no idea who you're dealing with, Sherlock. This man is insane! He gives a damn about his life, and even less about the lives of others! He is invincible when angry. Believe me, I've seen it all. And when I did, I was glad that he was on our side. Really, Iron Man is a bad joke, compared to him."

"You may be right in account to the facts that I don't know, but you're wrong in many all the other points: I've seen him, I've met him, and I know exactly how to tame this beast, John. Because I know his only soft spot: He's a choleric bastard."

"You...'ve met him?"

"Yeah. He tried to attack me only two days ago."

"Oh." John didn't ask where Sherlock was then. Not because he ´didn't want to know, but because it just hurt too much. "Right. Well,...then...I hope your plan works." John smiled softly.

"Well...since we have some time left, I think I have to tell you that I..."

Suddenly the entrance was opened, and steps were approaching the stairs.


End file.
